


My Lovely, Beauteous Violet

by peacepunch123 (lilliecase)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Can be read without knowledge of fandom it's pretty generic honestly, F/M, Finished, Historical References, Romance, Smoking, Tragedy, WWII, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2019-02-01 14:04:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12706476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilliecase/pseuds/peacepunch123
Summary: Marianne is tenderly haunted by the voice and words of her husband.Inspired by characters from AP:H.





	My Lovely, Beauteous Violet

“Darling, wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. She awoke to normalcy—the early morning light soaking through the curtains, the spirit of the beautiful London day to come drifting through the house like sweet perfume, the face of her husband, only centimeters away from hers, his breath falling in gentle puffs on her skin. His eyes were the most vibrant green, a sharp contrast to the pale skin they were set in, and they were wide awake, as if he’d been up for hours, or as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“What is it?” Her words were thick with sleep, and she shut her eyes once more, readjusting the blankets. “Go back to bed, dear. It’s too early for—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

“Forgotten?” She jolted awake and sat up, searching for any and every possibility she could think of while still half-asleep. “We’re late for Church?”

“No, it’s Saturday, love. A certain _special_ Saturday.” He sat up beside her, a grin etched into his tired features.

She stared at him blankly, fighting the sleep that lingered in her bones, and rubbed her eyes. “Is… Is it something very important?”

“I might say so. _Terribly_ important, even.”

A moment passed before it clicked, and electricity shot through her veins. Her eyes went wide, and she said, “Christ—Amelia! What sort of mother am I? How could I be so insensitive?”

“You’re only half awake, darling. It’s alright.”

“No, no, we’ve slept in, haven’t we? I wanted to decorate, but now—”

“Already taken care of.”

She paused in her worrying, giving him a sideways glance. “Pardon?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I made myself useful. It’s all decorated, just as we planned. All we need to do now is to wake her up.”

“Oh, my—Arthur…”

He’d made her speechless, and in response, he offered a simple shrug. “I figured that I would let you sleep in.”

“Love, you’ve outdone yourself.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he hugged her back. He gave her a delicate smile—an expression so kind, and yet all too infrequent on his lips—a smile that tugged at her heartstrings. She held his face in her hands.

His smile grew. ”Deserving of a kiss, even?”

“Perhaps… But, there is one more thing.”

“Anything for you, Marianne, my queen.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Arthur chuckled weakly. “It was worth a shot. What can I do?”

Her mood changed rapidly, and her eyebrows knit together tightly in concern. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, staring into the eyes of her husband, her best friend, her everything. “Tell me… How early did you wake up?”

His smile vanished. “Darling, that isn’t—”

“Yes, it is. Did you have another difficult night?”

“Yes, love, but it _really_ isn’t—”

“You didn’t wake me up. I told you last time, I don’t mind if you wake me up.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh, spare me.” Her hands fell to her lap, and she put as much careful concern as she could into each word. “Was it a nightmare again?”

He chose his words carefully before replying. “Yes. It—” Arthur shook his head and said firmly, “It felt so real. I couldn’t fall asleep after that. I couldn’t.”

“What happened in it?”

“Nothing of interest, honestly.”

“Arthur, please.”

“Marianne—today should be happy. It’s Amelia’s birthday. I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Not yet, it isn’t.” And with that, she grabbed him around the waist and fell back onto the bed. Her laughter echoed around the room, and he joined in, embracing her tightly and snagging a few quick kisses. Marianne whispered, her words heard by his ears and none other, “Please, darling. Tell me.”

He hesitated a moment, looked into her eyes, and sighed. Slowly, deliberately, he recounted the events of his dream. “It wasn’t much, or very long. I was sitting in the living room with you and Amelia. We were listening to some radio program when the ground just—collapsed underneath me. I was falling, and I couldn’t stop. The whole time I saw you and Amelia above me, calling out to me, crying…”  
  
“Oh, Arthur…”

Marianne hugged him tightly. She listened to his breathing. It was as it usually was; it was as she had always known it to be. If he was disturbed, he did an excellent job of hiding it—which was exactly what frightened Marianne the most. She said, in the smallest voice she could manage, “It was just a dream, darling. I’m alive. Amelia is alive. We’re safe. You’re safe. We always will be. I promise.”

He pulled away from her for a moment, his eyes clouded, his expression indiscernible, but before she could press him for information any further, he flashed one of those dashing smiles that had won her over, heart and soul, so many years ago. “I know, I know. It was just a dream. Now—what would you say about waking Amelia up?”

“Only if I could do it with you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, my lovely, beauteous violet…”

 

* * *

 

_Darling, wake up…_

Marianne bolted upright, clutching at the sheets, breathing heavily, eyes wild, heart pounding. Something wasn’t right. Arthur was not in bed beside her. It was still dark out—the morning rays had yet to seep through the curtains. The somber feeling of early morning penetrated her bones, and she lowered her feet to the wooden floor. It was freezing to the touch, and it sent chills down her spine. She peered out the window, and just as she had predicted, it was pitch black. According to the antique clock near their vanity, it was 06:07.

She covered herself in the robe hanging on the bedpost, protecting herself from any further chill. Determined to find out what was amiss, Marianne braved the main corridor of her home. The floorboards creaked and breathed under her tender steps, and she poked her head into Amelia’s bedroom.

All was quiet and still. Amelia was asleep. She hadn’t noticed that her father—and now, her mother—were awake and astir. Marianne shut the door silently.

As if from another world, noises began to register. The static sound of the radio drifted down the hallway from the kitchen. A feeling of dread flooded her consciousness. Her feet found their way before her thoughts did, and before she knew it, she was standing before him.

Arthur looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. His eyes were sullen and dark, his face was pale, and in his lips, a cigarette. The smoke hung around in the kitchen. He stared blankly at the table and sat hunched over, engrossed entirely in his own thoughts.

The radioman spoke gravely. His voice cut in and out, replaced instead by static and silence. Marianne heard enough to understand that something very, very serious had happened—”Once again… Kraków, Łódź, and… Air attacks severely… German navy… Battleship attacks Polish…”

He took a long, solid drag from the cigarette. She took a seat at the table. They were speechless. Nothing needed to be said. Nothing could be said. Nothing would be said.

Arthur shut off the radio. With his free hand, he rubbed his face—he was exhausted, emotionally, physically, mentally, and it showed in his every aching movement. The air around them, laced with smoke, was tight and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. His eyes stayed firmly on the radio. “It’s the Germans. They’ve stormed Poland.”

She stayed quiet. She didn’t know what to say. In that moment, she regretted all of the times in which she obstinately refused to learn about world affairs, claiming that politics were of no use to her unless it happened on her happy island home. She wished that she had paid more attention when Arthur tried tirelessly to explain the situation in Germany to her. She wished that she could have seen this coming. She wondered if anyone did see it coming. And so she asked, “Did anyone see it coming?”

He took a moment to process the question. “Someone, somewhere. But… It was a bit of a  surprise to me.” He rubbed the cigarette into a dish, leaving the butt exposed and to be disposed of. Arthur leaned back in his chair. Heavily, he said, “I’m going to enlist.”

Her heart somersaulted in her chest. Those were exactly the words that she had hoped to never, ever hear. “Have we declared war yet?”

“No. But we will, soon enough. We’d better. This sort of behaviour is unacceptable. We wouldn’t let them get away with this. We wouldn’t.”

Marianne hesitated. They’d discussed his interest in joining the Royal Air Force before, but that was different. That was during peacetime. That wasn’t actually fighting. And even then, she had been opposed to him enlisting. She wanted him as close to her as possible, not in the RAF, where injury and death were common. Whatever this conflict was, she didn’t want Arthur anywhere near it. She wanted him to stay in London. But he clearly had something else in mind. “I suppose I can’t convince you otherwise?”

“You suppose correctly. I’m enlisting.”

“Not even if I remind you that you have a wife who loves you? A well-paying job? A daughter who needs you in her life?”

“You won’t sway my decision. I also have a duty to my country and to preserving freedom.”

It was as if a nightmare had become her waking reality. But Marianne refused to cry, or beg, or plead. Now was not the time for any of that. She leaned over and turned on the radio, adjusting it to a different channel. Instead of news, a song lilted from the machine. It played gently, warmly. It was a painful contrast to the situation. “Then do this for me now, darling. Dance with me.”

Marianne pulled Arthur to his feet. She was met with little resistance. He placed his arms around her waist, and hers around his neck. The song played, telling of a love painfully similar to their own, and Marianne hummed along. She rested her head on his chest, and her eyelids fluttered shut. They swayed to the music, like flowers in the gentle breeze before a terrible storm. She listened to his breathing—and this time, it was shallow, hollow, rapid—frightened.

He held her tightly, and into her ear, he whispered, “You are forever my lovely, beauteous violet.”  
  


_The mere idea of you, the longing here for you_

_You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you_

_I see your face in every flower_

_Your eyes in stars above_

_It's just the thought of you_

_The very thought of you, my love._

 

* * *

 

“Please, wake up!”

She woke up instantly. Her body leapt into overdrive without her even realizing it; she was out of bed and grabbing her robe before she could even process the harmlessness of the situation. Amelia sat on the foot of the large, empty bed, giggling at her mother. Marianne spun around, analyzed her daughter’s careless expression, and heaved a sigh. She trudged back to the bed, weary, and sat beside Amelia. The little girl leapt into her mother’s arms. A weak smile formed on Marianne’s lips.

“You woke up so late, Mummy!”

“I am very tired, darling.”

“You missed the postman!”

She hugged her daughter, assuming that this was just another childish delusion or make believe story, and said placatingly, “Did I now? Did he bring the post?”

“He did! He brought a letter! And guess what?”

“What, darling?”

“It’s from Daddy!”

Marianne froze. She held her daughter, perhaps a bit too tightly, and in a reserved, calculated tone, asked, “Did you open it?”

Amelia laughed and shook her head, golden locks flying everywhere. “No, Mummy, it’s for you, not for me! It says Marianne on it, not Amelia!”

Her heart seemed to stop beating. The letter was right there, on the bed. It was written in _his_ handwriting. She didn’t feel strong enough to open it, but Amelia was there and begging to hear something—anything from her father who was off fighting gallantly. With hands that seemed as if they weren’t her own, she opened the letter and skimmed it.

A photo was attached. It was a picture of Arthur, smiling brightly, dazzlingly, breathtakingly, his arm resting on his aeroplane.

Amelia pleaded with her to read it aloud. Marianne stared at the letter and pretended to read it aloud, improvising a story of how he was doing fine and how he missed everyone and how he’d had so many adventures fighting the Germans in his plane. Most importantly, she said, Arthur wanted Amelia to write him letters that tell him everything he missed. It was her job as a big, grown up girl. Amelia’s eyes lit up. “Did Daddy really say all that, Mum?”

“Absolutely.”

And almost instantly, she ran out of the room, shouting, “I’m going to write Daddy a letter right now!”

The bedroom was silent once she ran off. Marianne looked down at the letter in her hands. She wanted to rip it up into pieces, to burn it, to throw it out the window. No word from Arthur was better than this—having only a small taste his words, words which shaped her world and more. But she couldn’t bring herself to do any of that to something that _he_ created. She loved him, and she knew, deep down, that everything and anything Arthur sent home was precious because it could be his very last. She read it over and over and over until each and every word was etched into her soul. She whispered each word as she read it again, she cried as she read it again, she said it all aloud and all alone as the sun began to seep through the curtains.

“My dearest Marianne…”

_Do you remember the letters I used write to you before we were married? Call it courting, if you will. But the minute I found out where you lived after our first date, I wrote you incessantly until you agreed to be mine forever. You must remember them. You’ve always had a better memory than I have. The letters worked, I suppose, since you’re my lovely wife. I couldn’t be gladder. You’re the most wonderful woman that any man could hope for._

_You’re very familiar with the passion that was in my words then. We were so young and carefree. Would naïve be the right word to describe us ten years ago? I don’t think so; that would imply that I regret something. If there’s one thing in this world, darling, that I do_ _not_ _regret doing, it is spending my time with you._

_I know how much my letters must have meant to you when they were filled with such innocence and lightheartedness. I shall try to invoke that same muse in the many letters to come._

_Please don't fret. I can tell that you’re worrying about me. I hate seeing_ — _or rather, feeling_ — _that you’re unhappy. We knew that it had to be done. They would have drafted me regardless._

_Did I mention in the last letter that I’ve named my plane after you? In case I forgot to tell you, I have. She’s almost as beautiful as you are, although I think I’d prefer to be with you instead of her._

_I'm at camp right now. It smells horribly of body odour. I miss you terribly, and I miss your lovely perfumes. Please send both._

_This letter is becoming pointless, and I must go, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m sending lots and lots of love, my dear. You're in my thoughts and prayers always. Please send news of Amelia and write soon._

_— Arthur_

_P.S. You are forever my lovely, beauteous violet._

 

* * *

 

_Dear Ms Kirkland:_

_It is with regret that I am writing to confirm the recent telegram informing you of the death of your husband, Lance-Corporal Arthur Kirkland 73,509,241, SQD. 617 who was reported missing in action on 26 July 1943 as a result of direct enemy action._

_His plane was shot down over Hamburg during a raid. His death was instantaneous. There was no body to bury but he was given a service by a chaplain of his faith. One of Arthur’s buddies who might be able to give you further information is: Leading Aircraftman Henry Egan 57,477,038, SQD. 617._

_I know the sorrow this message has brought you and it is my hope that in time the knowledge of his heroic service to his country, even unto death, may be of sustaining comfort to you._

_I extend to you my deepest sympathy._

 

* * *

 

_Marianne,_

_Thank you for writing to me. I received your letter yesterday asking about Arthur. I wish to express my deepest sympathy to you and your daughter. He has told me lots about you and even though I have never met you I feel as if I have. I know what he meant to you. I was a good friend of his and was fighting with him at the time it happened. I have also sent you a letter. He handed it to me one day and told me to send it to you when the time was right. When would the time be right, I asked, and he said that I would know. I know now that this is the time._

_I understand that my sympathy means nothing but I will offer it anyway. I would be honoured to visit sometime once the war is over if you would have me._

_There isn’t much more I can say. I hope this will help you. If there is any more or any other way I can help you out, let me know and I will help you all I can._

_Sincerely yours._

He had attached a sealed letter. The envelope read, in Arthur’s hasty scrawl, “For the love of my life.”

_My dearest Marianne,_

_I realize that it is an impossible goal, but I am going to try to say everything that I wanted to say to you, but never had the chance._

_Here goes nothing. Or perhaps here goes everything._

_Darling, you are the reason why I live. All I do, I do for you. I’m certain that you know this, but it was necessary to tell you again because if you’re reading this, that means I will never be able to say it to you in person ever again. But know that I will love you forever and that you are always on my mind. You drive me mad in the best way possible._

_I miss you so, so much. I miss your kisses, your laughter, your face, your teasing, your voice. I miss you and everything about you. You are the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m sorry that I will never be able to hold you again._ ~~_I’m sorry that my strength and spirit weren’t enough to_ ~~ _No, it was enough. What I’m sorry about is that this war ever happened. I’m sorry that such hateful people live in a world where our darling daughter has to grow up fatherless._

_Speaking of Amelia, I trust fully that you will raise her to be a lovely young woman just like you are. It is unfortunate that I will never be able to see her in person but we will meet again soon enough. She’ll do great things someday with you to guide her._

_I don’t want to make this sad but that is also the nature of these things, I suppose. I fought for our country and for freedom, but I realized only recently the real reason why I enlisted for the RAF. I enlisted because I wanted to protect my family from harm. I enlisted up because I love you more than words can say and I always will._

_You are forever my lovely, beauteous violet._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, shares, and comments/critiques are always appreciated ;-)
> 
> I wrote this story when I was 16, so please know that it isn't my best work, haha.


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